Little Girl Lost
by CrimsonSuspense
Summary: Everything has changed, and nothing has. Scaramouche is trying to figure it all out. -Rating might change; characters not mine etc.-
1. Chapter 1

_Because We Will Rock You finally finished on the West End last week, I'm experiencing slight withdrawal. This is for anyone who feels the same, and who wonders whether the bohemians genuinely enjoyed the changes that took over their lives - even the changes they worked so hard for. I hope you enjoy. (And please let me know if this seems worth continuing, as it's the first thing I've written in a while.)_

* * *

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Staring up into the darkness, eyes following the light on the ceiling that shifts every time a car passes by the building, Scaramouche focuses on her breathing, taking deep, steady breaths intended to calm the deep anxiety that she can barely escape from these days. In the beginning, she had been unnerved by the crowds and the endless, endless noise, but it was also exciting: a new way of life that was as thrilling as it was terrifying. But instead of acclimatising, as Meat and Macca and even Gazz had done, their personalities changing ever so slightly with each week that they became ever more present in the public eye and the media, Scaramouche had withdrawn slightly, and people had occasionally noticed, sure – but it had been with sympathy. It was new, she was simply a bit overwhelmed. But it hasn't stopped.

Now that it has been not weeks, but years, (six of them, and how the hell has it been this _long_), people have started to question her more and more. Should the crowds not be second nature to her, now? For someone making their living through the emerging and ever-popular genre of new, live, rock-and-roll music, shouldn't the noise be a second nature to her? Why is it that the once-happy teenager who couldn't look at Galileo Figaro, the world's darling, without love in her eyes and a smile on her face, is now rarely seen in public with him – never mind the smiles?

With the recent news stories whirling through her mind – '_SCARAMOUCHE SUFFERING?_' '_FIRST LADY OF ROCK AND ROLL REPORTED UNSETTLED AND UNHAPPY_' '_SHOULD GALILEO BE SPENDING MORE TIME WORRYING ABOUT HIS GIRL, LESS ABOUT THE MUSIC_' Scaramouche reached blindly for the small pill bottle on the small shelf next to her bed, took one with a swig of water, and buried her head under the pillow, searching for sleep – and with it, peace.

* * *

Galileo looks at her, and she can see the excitement lighting up his eyes, bright and exhilarated, and she knows that this is truly the best moment of his life so far. She can't help but grin shyly back at him, because his gaze, focused on her at this moment that is the peak of everything they've worked and searched for, means more than either of them could say.

"I just -" he says, and can't finish the sentence, so instead he takes two quick steps forward to grab her into a hug, and kiss her quickly and fiercely when they both draw back. The roar that meets his action is indescribable, and the two of them look across the sea of thousands that are standing before the stage, screaming and waving in their frenzied state, born of the first freedom that any of them have ever experienced.

Releasing her, Galileo bounds forward to take centre stage, holding up his arms to receive an even louder noise, and tilts his head back, up to the lights that caress him, that light the sheen on his face and the stray smudges of makeup that streak his jeans and shirt. Scaramouche watches as the crowd worship the boy she loves, feels a pang of tightness that she puts down to hunger, or stage fright, or this new feeling that she thinks is love, but that she doesn't dare to admit yet.

She is still watching him, in fact, when, from the front of the stage, there is a surge in the crowd, and the audience rises up and envelops him, drawing him down into the crowd until he disappears completely, and her scream of horror is swallowed entirely by the noise of the crowd that feels as if it is swallowing her whole.

* * *

The next morning, she awakes with a head that feels as though it is full of concrete, and her mouth is dry as dust. She wakes, in fact, just in time to roll over towards Galileo, who opens one eye lazily, and grins sleepily when he sees her awake.

"Hey, Skirmisher." Her lips twitch into a tiny smile, and she rolls up to be closer to him. He lifts a lazy, heavy arm over her, holding her close, and she tries to relax, closing her eyes and burying her head into his neck. He holds her quietly, moving his hand in sweeping circles across her back. After a few minutes, he asks, "Rough dream again?"

She winces at the irony. "Supposed to be your territory, that, innit?" He smiles gently. "Can't say I miss it."

It doesn't seem fair to her, it really doesn't. Galileo Figaro, 'The Dreamer', for Christ's sake, has barely had one significant dream in nearly five years. Sure, there had been what they'd called The Wakening. A year after they'd taken down Globalsoft and destroyed the half-human half-pixelated businesswoman who took charge of the company, Galileo had awoken, yelling and shouting, and Scaramouche, who had only just got used to a quiet night's sleep, had awoken screaming herself. Galileo, sweating and terrified, had refused to explain it to her, instead calling Khashoggi, for reasons which quickly became clear. A group of Yes-Things who couldn't quite bring themselves to let go of their reign of glory had risen up in a rebellion of their own, and had attempted to glitch every computer the bohemians had held in their stores through a computer code, which disguised a virus, transferred through the slowly developing Ethernet. Since the bohemians' computers also held the code that prevented any further attempts from anyone pushing themselves forward as a major internet-based power – as Killer Queen had done – this made them some of the most significant items the bohemians held.

An overly efficient and entirely ruthless technology department that consisted entirely of two people had been enough to rewrite the (shoddy, they'd discovered) code that the Yes-Things had been using, and a group of over-excited new bohemians, with the brightest new outfits and the neon shades still glowing in their freshly-dyed hair had been dispatched to scare away the Yes-Things brave enough to come and launch an attack in person. Realistically, it had been a group of young teenagers yelling and shoving at one another, with the particularly skilled effector of an impressive right hook being the most dangerous thing any of them had to contend with, and once the Yes-Things had been scared away (it appeared, when looked at through the CCTV, as though they had left out of boredom, but no one liked to correct this), the new young bohemians had returned, giddy with their own triumph, and a raucous party had ensued.

Galileo, exhausted but finally free of more dreams, had been swept up in the celebrations, while Scaramouche (who had been half of the team who had broken up the main threat they had faced – Khashoggi being the other) had gone to bed, taking advantage of their new bedroom, luckily far enough away from the main building to be able to mask all the noise from the party.

When he eventually joined her that night, she closed her eyes, pretending she didn't feel the hand on her shoulder, the whisper of her name that carried the alcohol on his breath across her face. She lay still until she was sure he'd fallen asleep next to her, and for reasons she wasn't quite sure of, she shuffled away from him, and could almost pretend that he wasn't there at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Chapter 2! At long last. It's been a while coming, but I hope you enjoy. Thank you to the kind reviewer recently who reminded me to get my arse in gear and get more of this out! More updates on other projects to come (she says tentatively...)_

When she wakes the next morning, the building is quiet, thank god. Too often, now, the wild parties that take place in the atrium and sometimes the entire ground floor of the building, carry on until the early hours of the morning, making Scaramouche want to scream.

The newer converted Gaga kids embrace the drinking and partying, imagining themselves blending in with the dwindling numbers of older bohemians – those that had been there through the rhapsody. Scaramouche remembers Paul, Bob, Madonna, curled over their glasses of 200 proof like there was nothing else stable in their world, and thinks that probably the newer kids haven't got a clue.

She remembers the morning she woke up and promised herself, _never again_, and shudders. She's not the type to give advice (doesn't have the experience for it, Meat tells her, but then Scara knows – and knows Meat knows too – that there's probably no one better for it) – still, she doesn't. If the kids want to live that way, it's not the job of the bohemians to tell them what to do.

Still, Scaramouche knows something has changed. The parties downstairs lack the wildness there once was, the crazed looks in the eyes of those living the hardest has vanished, replaced with clear breath in the mornings, and the bone-weariness that was once a distinguishing feature of the habitants of what used to be the Heartbreak Hotel, has vanished.

Scaramouche remembers the first night in the company of bohemians. Remembers their tattered clothes, the grime and dirt in the creases of their wrists and caked on their boots and under their nails; remembers the stories they would tell over firelight, sitting in circles, draped across and against one another, telling stories of a time once worth living, with music and happiness and light…

She thinks of the new lot – _no_hemians, Meat had called them once, after a few, and laughed herself stupid – and the way they wake every morning and wash their hair, apply fresh nail varnish, and fresh makeup. It's black varnish, sure, and the eye makeup is just as bright as something you might once have seen on Charlotte, or Jovi, but it's one pattern that all of them follow.

She wonders what Pop would have thought of all of this. Wonders whether, if the old man were still with them, he would have some deep and considered wisdom to offer them.

…Or whether, more likely, he'd have told her to have a shot of whiskey, and let it pass.

* * *

She is still shaking an hour later: Khashoggi's offered her a blanket, and Meat a glass of Whiskey, and the pair sit on either side of her as she gasps for breath and feels her heart pounding against her ribcage. She closes her eyes, trying to focus on the fact that she has seen Gazz since, knows he wasn't dragged into the crowd kicking and screaming; that Meat had told her that a stage dive would only garner more interest from the crowd –

She feels a shudder pass through her, and takes a gulp from the glass that had been pressed into her hand. A hand squeezes her shoulder.

"Hey, chick," says Meat quietly, sliding down next to her on the bench seat. "What's going on?"

Scaramouche manages a shaky laugh, and looks around her. "Are we in security?" Meat snorted.

"Lighting and tech. But nice try. What was that about?"

Scara studies her feet, letting her hair, damp with sweat, fall across her face. Meat waits. At last, dark brown eyes meet green-gold.

"I just." Scara starts, and then exhales sharply. "Fuck. I was watching him, and he – he-" Meat is still watching her. "He disappeared, Meat. I thought…"

"Well nothing happened, did it?" Says Meat, and Scara looks up in surprise. "What's that meant to mean?"

Meat sighs, and Scara begins to see the exhaustion behind the mask of stage makeup she'd watched Meat paint on earlier. "I just mean – nothing went wrong. We knew it was going to happen-"

"Maybe _you_ did-"

"But," Meat carries on as though Scara hasn't spoken, "Nothing happened. He did the dive, the crows went wild-" (Scara remembers the howls of the crowd, like a pack of wolves closing in) "-and he's fine! Then next thing we knew, you'd run off!"

Scara tries hard not to feel like this is her best friend stabbing her hard in the back, and sucks in a breath as she stands up. "I guess we'd better get back out then" is all she says.

* * *

When Meat Loaf finally strolls into the large, draughty room the next morning, it is with last night's makeup smeared around her eyes, and the fumes of vodka lingering on her breath. Scaramouche wrinkles her nose, and eyes Meat with cool scepticism.

"Good night, was it?"

"Fuck you," Meat yawns, taking a seat in one of the fold-away chairs littering the far wall, and resting her feet up on the window ledge, "'cause actually, it was shit. Which you know, cause if it'd been better, I wouldn't be here." She takes a slim case out of her pocket, and begins rolling a cigarette.

"Yeah," Scara nods, absently watching the nimble movement of Meat's fingers, "you'd be in bed with – who is it this week?"

"Fuck you. Again."

The rehearsal goes about as well as could be expected: Galileo is not entirely sober, and getting more animated as time passes, until he is dancing around the microphone and laughing at nothing in particular (Scaramouche, who would have once been thrilled at his excitement, is slightly embarrassed by this – and then feels slightly guilty for feeling slightly embarrassed) – while Meat Loaf is slowly becoming more and more sullen, eventually throwing down the drumsticks and yelling at Paul for stepping on her cues, and storming out. Galileo follows, Paul lights a blunt and gazes blankly out of the bay window, and Scaramouche leaves the room and leans her forehead against the cool plaster wall of the corridor, wondering how the cracks in the band that had once been so wide.

_A/N part II: if it's not entirely clear (I'm doing this sans beta, so please do let me know if you notice anything that doesn't fit), the central inserts in each chapter of this fic are telling a past story. So the final section of this, with the rehearsal, takes place on the same morning which Scara wakes up to in the first section of this chapter._

_Phew._


End file.
